


A Draught of Sunlight

by days_of_storm



Series: The Eye of the Beholder Series - Book I [5]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-10
Updated: 2012-10-15
Packaged: 2017-11-16 01:36:31
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,808
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/534037
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/days_of_storm/pseuds/days_of_storm
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is the last part of Book I (aka. The Eye of the Beholder series). This part consists of four chapters.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

  * For [verityburns](https://archiveofourown.org/users/verityburns/gifts).



> Thanks , as always, to Verity Burns, for being a never ending inspiration, both of the written kind, and the naughty thoughts kind (as well as being the source of endless hilarity), and to everyone else who supported me; from the beginning, on the way or just before the end. Much love to all of you! x

John woke up feeling miserable. Opening one eye, he could see Sherlock sleeping next to him and he felt the sudden urge to poke him, just so he wouldn’t have to be miserable on his own. With a sigh, he closed his eye again. And then it dawned on him.  
  
James Moriarty was dead. Sherlock had killed him. He had shot him when he had thought John lost. The monstrosity of his action only now became clear to him. If John had died, Sherlock would have spent the rest of his life trying to hunt Moriarty down and they would have been playing cat and mouse until one of them would finally succeed and kill the other. But he had killed the one person who would have been his only distraction and at the same time the focus of his hatred and pain.  
  
John stumbled out of bed and barely made it into the bathroom before he threw up. For a few seconds he felt pure panic burning through him, his stomach heaving, no air in his lungs, just blinding pain. Then he felt two warm hands on his back and he immediately felt safe again.  
  
“John?”  
  
He blinked the tears away and spat out and finally filled his lungs with air again. “I’m sorry.” His voice sounded rough and it hurt to talk.  
  
Sherlock sighed behind him. “Nonsense. The amount of whisky you drank perfectly explains your poor stomach. I’m fairly sure that there is still some alcohol in your blood. ”  
  
John turned around, sitting up against the toilet, looking at Sherlock who was crouching in front of him. “And you?” he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “No rest-alcohol?”  
  
Sherlock avoided his eyes and John regretted chiding him continuously for his drug abuse. But he was sure that Sherlock had drunk quite a bit more than he had. Either way, the bottle had been empty before the sun had set. “I’m sorry,” John wanted to reach out and touch his face, but he remembered that maybe he wouldn’t appreciate that gesture after he had clung to the toilet bowl, so he dropped his hand again. For a moment they remained in their positions, Sherlock close to John, looking at the wall behind the sink and John studying Sherlock’s face.  
  
Just when he wanted to apologise again, Sherlock shook his head and shot up, turning on the cold water tap on the sink, dipping his hands into the water and crouching down again, gently touching John’s face with his cold hands. Then he seemed to remember what John had done the night before and flushed the toilet, closed the lid and grabbed John’s hand to pull him up so he could sit down. He watched as John leaned over the sink and filled his hands with water, swallowing down a few hands full and splashing his face.  
  
“Stop copying me,” Sherlock remarked with a small smile when John closed the tap and leaned back, the water from his face dripping on his t-shirt. For the first time, he became aware that he was actually wearing pyjama bottoms and a t-shirt.  
  
John exhaled and then stood up, pulling Sherlock against him. “It wasn’t just the whisky,” he murmured, closing his eyes.  
  
“Want to go back to bed?”  
  
“What time is it?”  
  
“Early,” Sherlock smiled and John noted in the back of his head that he had expected Sherlock to dish out a precise time, exact to the second, and just how much he had changed.  
  
“Let me just brush my teeth,” he leaned back, looking up at Sherlock’s face. “You okay?”  
  
“Fine.”  
  
“Good.”  
  
Sherlock prepared John’s toothbrush and his own, which made John grin.  
  
“Stop copying me,” he said around his toothbrush, making Sherlock playfully bump against his shoulder, which did funny things to John’s stomach.  
  
When they were done, John pulled off his t-shirt and dropped it next to the shower. “Why are we dressed?” he asked, trying to remember the point at which they had decided that being naked wasn’t the perfect state to be in.  
  
“Must have felt cold,” Sherlock remarked with a shrug. So he had been properly drunk as well. John couldn’t hide his smile, noticing that he felt much better than he had when he had woken up. “Come on.” He took Sherlock’s hand and pulled him back into the bedroom. Once there, he tugged at Sherlock’s t-shirt until he pulled it off. He didn’t care for their pyjama bottoms either, but for now he just wanted to cuddle and not get all hot and bothered at four o’clock in the morning.  
  
Without having to say a word, Sherlock pulled John close to him as soon as they were under the covers. For a while they just remained quiet, listening to each other’s breathing, but eventually Sherlock lifted a hand and pushed it into John’s hair. “Tell me.” That was all he said and John’s heart clenched because Sherlock knew him so well and watched him so closely, and still didn’t make him feel uncomfortable about it.  
  
“When I woke up ...” he started, wondering what Sherlock would make of his words. He exhaled and started again. “I just realised that you couldn't know whether I was dead or alive.” Sherlock’s fingers tightened in his hair, but only for a second before they relaxed again. His thumb was tracing the shell of his ear and John couldn’t help but smile.  
  
“You killed him because you thought I was dead,” John continued after a while, frowning.  
  
“I had one shot, John. I had to take it, whether you were dead or not.”  
  
“Did you believe I was dead?” John looked at Sherlock, whose eyes were closed in the dark. He didn’t know whether he did that to remember better or to ward off the memory.  
  
“Chances that you had died were quite low, considering the bullet proof vest. But I couldn’t be sure.”  
  
“Did you _believe_ that I was dead, Sherlock?” John repeated the question, remembering now how Sherlock had fallen apart in his arms when he had been ill with fever a few days ago. Sherlock’s fingers stopped moving and John could feel that he tried to force his breathing to stay calm. He didn’t quite succeed.  
  
“I’m sorry,” John whispered, kissing his chin, feeling it tremble.  
  
Sherlock exhaled loudly, frowning, his eyes still closed. John could feel him searching for words, but there were none. So he kissed him and made sure that Sherlock wouldn’t think he’d need to say anything. Eventually the kiss grew less intense and less sad and they both settled more comfortably in between the sheets and when John opened his eyes again after a while, it was day and Sherlock was gone.  
  
He yawned and stretched, amazed that he felt fairly well, all things considered. For a moment he thought of taking a shower, but then he just stayed in bed, stretching and thinking about the meaning of yesterday’s events.  
  
They were free now. Free of the constant shadow following them wherever they went. Free of the man who had almost managed to make John feel afraid to leave the house; John, who had gone on patrol in Afghanistan, knowing of snipers in empty houses, knowing of children who might have a bomb strapped to their bodies, of friends who turned out to be enemies. He had always been aware of the invisible danger, and yet he had trusted his instincts then. He hadn’t been able to trust his instincts with Moriarty.  
  
“John, stop thinking so hard,” Sherlock piped up from somewhere out of his sight.  
  
“Why are you on the floor?”  
  
“I am distracted.”  
  
John rolled over until he could peek over the end of the bed and down to where Sherlock lay, wearing the bathrobe which had ridden up a bit so that Sherlock was showing way too much leg for anybody’s good. He swallowed audibly. “What?”  
  
“I am distracted.”  
  
“Oh, I heard you, I just don’t …”  
  
“Understand, I know.” Sherlock sighed, causing one half of the robe to slide off a bit to show his chest.  
  
“Stop it. All of it. And get up here.” John moved back and waited for Sherlock to return to bed, but there was no sound which suggested that the man currently lying flat on his back in the most seducing manner would move even a single toe. John sighed. His toes were probably moving, but that wasn’t important now. The sigh didn’t help either, but he refused to give in so easily. So he sighed again, louder this time, being rather proud of how dramatic it sounded.  
  
Still nothing from below. He was just about to crawl back to the edge when his brain finally caught up with what Sherlock had said. He was distracted. Sherlock was never distracted. Sherlock just zoomed out and did his thing. The only things that distracted Sherlock were people being stupid, people being unreasonably noisy and … John. “Oh,” he breathed, feeling his cheeks redden. And then he felt a lot of blood flowing elsewhere when he imagined Sherlock’s smile at his realisation. He could check, but that would feel like cheating.  
  
So instead John stretched again, making a little noise in the back of his throat, hoping to distract Sherlock some more. Then he grinned, both because it was ridiculous and because it was fun, and pushed off his pyjama bottoms. He kicked them off the bed so that Sherlock could see what he had done. Then he took a pillow, fluffed it up, tucked it under his head and settled down. For a few moments, he just listened, but Sherlock seemed to be waiting just as he was. John figured that it would only be fair to start, not knowing how long Sherlock had actually lain on the floor in order to keep himself from waking John up. He was touched by so much self-restraint from Sherlock’s side.  
  
John thought about licking his hand to make sure that he could move smoothly, and to make sure that Sherlock would hear; but then he remembered that they had lube now, so he moved over to the other side and reached for Sherlock’s bag into which he had half-heartedly thrown the condoms and lube to make sure that it wasn’t the first thing the maids saw when they came in to clean the room.  
  
John found the lube and moved back into the centre of the bed, smiling as he realised that the pillow smelled of Sherlock. With a content hum he flipped open the tube and let some of the clear liquid run out onto his palm. He had never done this with lube, and he felt a shiver of anticipation run through him. For a second he considered pushing the lube off the bed so Sherlock could use some as well, but then he decided that if Sherlock wanted it, he would have to come and get it.  
  
He was already fully hard when he touched himself, sucking in his breath through his teeth. John wasn’t sure whether he really heard or whether he imagined a small desperate sound coming from below. In the end, it didn’t matter. Within seconds he had found a rhythm, elated by how easily his hand slid over his erection, how good a final little twist felt before he moved back down.  
  
For a while he did just that, eyes closed, slowly stroking himself, enjoying the burning sensation in his groin that slowly grew in intensity, before his focus shifted. John became more aroused as he began to imagine that it was Sherlock’s hand around him; and that he was stroking Sherlock just like that. The groan which escaped him unbidden sounded lewd and uncontrolled and just then he heard Sherlock move.  
  
John could hear that he stroked faster than him, and his breathing grew louder and laboured and John wondered how far gone Sherlock had already been when he had woken up. Maybe it wasn’t a good idea to make Sherlock talk about it but just the thought made him stroke faster and tighten his grip a little.  
  
“Sher …” he bit his lip to keep himself from groaning Sherlock’s name. Making it this obvious was not going to be how this would go down. A whimper came from below and he could hear Sherlock’s heels scraping along the carpet. The image of Sherlock arching up into his own hand made John grab the pillow, holding on for dear life. He wanted to tell him to stop. He wanted to force Sherlock to lie still, to not move until he told him to. That thought only made it worse.  
  
John’s hand moved faster without any conscious decision. He realised he was moaning quietly with every thrust into his hand. Again he imagined Sherlock’s long fingers wrapped around him; his thumb pressing down just under his head, and then he could feel Sherlock’s lips closing around him.  
  
He automatically grasped Sherlock’s hand which suddenly appeared next to him. Their fingers intertwined as he bucked up once more to the thought of Sherlock swallowing him down and then he was undone.  
  
For a few moments he just focused on filling his lungs with air again. John’s fingers hurt, he was still grasping Sherlock’s hand that hard, and Sherlock was still holding on, still squeezing harder every now and then. Aftershocks, John thought just as one ran through him and made him groan. He loved how long it took Sherlock to come down from orgasm; as if his body needed to memorise every little detail of the chemical process through which it had just gone and he wouldn’t let him off with just calming down again; no, his body would shake and quiver and Sherlock’s eyes would close involuntarily as he slowly regained control.  
  
John wiped his hand on the sheets, being aware of but indifferent to the fact that whoever cleaned their room would know pretty well what had been happening on the bed; and off it. Then he squeezed Sherlock’s extended hand once more before pulling away, stretching his fingers and forming a first just to make sure that blood flow was restored and then he finally allowed himself to look back down.  
  
Sherlock was lying on his back, the bathrobe completely open now, revealing his softening cock lying against his stomach, cum glistening on his white skin. His right hand rested on his thigh, fingers wet. For a few moments John just looked at him, unable to process what had just happened; that Sherlock had yet again managed to surprise him by manipulating him into doing something which he would have never known how to ask for. Then Sherlock opened his eyes and John felt breathless once more. His pupils were blown so wide that his eyes looked almost black. His features were relaxed and his lips parted just a fraction. He looked so beautiful that John almost felt in pain. The urge to touch him was overpowering, but he also wanted to keep looking at him, wondering how any man could be like Sherlock, and how it had taken him a year to fully appreciate him. He couldn’t help but smile and Sherlock smiled back, and John faintly wondered whether Sherlock found it frightening or liberating to be unable to control certain reflexes; because smiling back at John had certainly become a reflex.  
  
“Do you want to come up now?” John asked, pointing at the bed. Sherlock shook his head and took hold of his arm, pulling hard. It didn’t take much to topple John off the bed. With a squeal that made Sherlock laugh John fell and landed half on top of him. Just as he wanted to tell Sherlock exactly what he thought of him in that moment, Sherlock grabbed his face and kissed him deeply, and John decided that insults could wait as he kissed Sherlock back, clumsily climbing on top of him.  
  
“Morning,” Sherlock said when they stopped kissing.  
  
John grinned and planted a wet, noisy kiss on his cheek. “Morning.”


	2. Chapter Two

They decided to make use of the rest of the day by strolling through the city. Well, John wanted to stroll, Sherlock hoped for another crime he could solve, or at least a mystery. From the way he looked at John with something resembling glee he could tell that Sherlock was ready to cause some trouble if nothing else came up.  
  
But, as far as John could tell, Sherlock didn’t steal anything from any of the stores they visited; he ate his lunch without being overly seductive or silly about it; he even chatted with an elderly lady who owned a little corner shop into which Sherlock had insisted on going, without telling him why. John scanned through the magazines and then the papers, wondering whether Moriarty’s death would be on the news. The thought made him feel slightly ill, so he stopped browsing and turned around, watching Sherlock casually lean against the counter, chatting away happily.  
  
John wondered whether a bomb would go off anytime soon, because this was definitely not normal Sherlock-behaviour.  
  
“Sherlock, let’s go to the museum or to Wolvesey Castle?” John picked up a bag of humbugs and joined him at the counter.  
  
“Yes, it’s quite lovely out today, isn’t it? You should go and visit the castle. They said it might clear up a bit. It’s almost February and everyone is ready for some sunshine,” the lady said with a smile.  
  
John smiled, too, thinking for a moment that spring would eventually mean warmth, which would eventually mean no coat on Sherlock, which would then lead to lots of unobscured views on a certain arse in tight trousers. Sherlock met his eyes and smirked.  
  
“This is John,” Sherlock then said, and for a second John thought he would add something to explain who he was, but nothing more followed.  
  
“Hello,” he said, giving a wave, feeling silly.  
  
“This is Natalia,” Sherlock explained after a moment, “she used to work for Mycroft.”  
  
“No,” John stared at her, wondering how in the world she had ended up here.  
  
“She was a double agent. Sadly the cold war ended while she was still in Russia. So she was moved here and received a new name and …” Sherlock looked around the shop, “… job.”  
  
“You’re a spy?” John didn’t quite believe Sherlock, but then again Sherlock usually didn’t lie to him.  
  
“An informant,” she said, reaching out to shake his hand. John winced at how strong she was.  
  
“Yes, an informant who knows seventy two ways of ending your life with just her left hand,” Sherlock grinned. He seemed almost proud and John wondered whether there was history between them.  
  
“Erm. Nice to meet you,” he pulled away his hand and stretched his fingers out.  
  
“You’re still not on speaking terms, you and your brother, are you?” Natalia nodded before Sherlock had a chance to react. “One day you two will have a little heart to heart, I gather. You can’t despise one another all your lives.”  
  
“John, let’s go and visit that castle you just spoke of,” Sherlock said, gently pushing against John.  
  
But John just grinned and stood his ground. “So they did get along at some point in the past, didn’t they?”  
  
Natalia smiled knowingly and nodded. “Can’t tell you that story, though. I’m sure my new identity might not forever remain a secret if either of those boys learned that I’d spill their secrets.”  
  
John laughed and gently squeezed Sherlock’s arm. “Alright, I don’t want to endanger your well-being. The wrath of the Holmeses is infamous.”  
  
Sherlock stared at him with narrowed eyes. “What do you mean, wrath?”  
  
John smirked and waved at Natalia. “I think it’s time to leave. Oh, and I’ll take these.” He pushed Sherlock aside to place the mint humbugs on the counter. Sherlock was positively buzzing behind him, but he tried to ignore that.  
  
“Aren’t you bored here?” John asked as he dug for his wallet, wondering whether he had left it at home. But then he remembered that he had already bought lunch. “Oh, I’m sorry, I must have left my …”  
  
Natalia grinned and pushed John’s wallet over the counter towards him. Sherlock snorted. “Still pulling that old trick, huh?”  
  
John was a tiny bit embarrassed, but mostly impressed. “How did you do that?”  
  
“Sorry, can’t tell you.” She grinned and John wondered just how quick and strong she must have been when she was younger.  
  
“Alright then,” he grinned, handing over the money he owed her for the candy. “It was very interesting meeting you.”  
  
“Likewise, John Watson,” she smiled.  
  
Sherlock was almost out of the door when she called him back. “I think you’ve forgotten something, too.” Her smile turned into a somewhat wicket grin and John couldn’t help but grin along.  
  
Sherlock smoothly strode back towards her, but almost fell over his feet when she pushed a small silver packet and a plastic tube towards him. John had never seen Sherlock blush as quickly and brightly as he did right in this moment.  
  
John just watched him, biting his lower lip, fighting down the laughter which threatened to double him over.  
  
“Thank you, Natalia. Most impressive. Good day.”  
  
He had grabbed the condom and lube and was out of the store before John could straighten up again.  
  
“He still hates it when you best him,” the former spy grinned, “and yet he does make it so very easy.”  
  
“That was indeed impressive. Good thing there are no other people here; he would have a fit if you had done this to him in public.”  
  
Natalia nodded and then pointedly looked at the corner across from the door, where a small camera was placed.  
  
“Woops,” John started to giggle but then thought better of it and grabbed his humbugs and made for the door. “If you’re ever in London, you know? Give us a ring?”  
  
“Sure, darling.” She smiled and sat down behind the counter, looking again like the regular, elderly shop keeper John had initially thought her to be.  
  
He couldn’t see Sherlock when he stepped out of the shop, and for a second he was worried that something had happened to him. He stopped, closed his eyes and inhaled deeply.  
  
Everything was alright. Nothing was happening to Sherlock, or him; well, nothing apart from randomly meeting double agents turned pick pockets.  
  
He could feel Sherlock’s presence behind him before he spoke. “The castle?” He stood close to him, but didn’t touch him. John wondered what the real reason for his embarrassment had been; the fact that an old friend had found out that he was actually having a sex life or the fact that he had not realised that he had been pick pocketed. He doubted it was Mycroft; because Mycroft knew where they were and he doubtlessly knew what they were doing and ….  
  
“Sherlock, why did you bring condoms?”  
  
He turned around, but found that he was alone again. “Oi, Sherlock,” he called out, feeling the incredible urge to snog him in the middle of the street with a whole lot of people watching them. It felt strange to realise that he didn’t care about that anymore. He was most certainly aware that their kissing would most likely offend quite a lot of people; but for him, it felt like an important step towards accepting their relationship and what it entailed.  
  
“Coming?” Sherlock’s lips brushed his ear and he shivered.  
  
“Not yet,” he retorted and slipped an arm around Sherlock’s waist before he could run off again.  
  
“Very funny,” Sherlock remarked drily, but his lips twitched.  
  
“Thank you,” John answered with a grin. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to kiss my husband.”  
  
He could sense Sherlock wanting to comment, but before he could say anything, John had both hands in Sherlock’s hair and his tongue inside his mouth.   
Eventually he pulled away, standing on his feet again as he had risen to his toes for better access to Sherlock’s mouth. Sherlock followed him down and tried to continue kissing him, but John knew that it wasn’t the best of ideas to kiss like this in the middle of a busy street; especially since Sherlock’s hand had somehow found a way under his clothes and he was now stroking up and down his back.  
  
“We’re going to be arrested,” John chuckled and finally detached himself from Sherlock entirely.  
  
“So?”  
  
“Bit not good?”  
  
“You started it.”  
  
“I know.”  
  
“So?”  
  
“The castle. Let’s go find that castle.”  
  
Wolvesey Castle was just around the corner, as everything else in Winchester, John thought with a smile. The ruins of what must once have been an impressive building stood out naked and grey in the sunlight. A small footpath led into the different rooms, now gaping holes and large empty squares. There were arched doors in the thick stone walls which in some cases led into smaller rooms and soon they found themselves alone in something which felt suspiciously like a dungeon. Sherlock smiled and crowded John against the wall.  
  
“Where were we?”  
  
“Nice alliteration there,” John grinned and ducked out of Sherlock’s grip.  
  
“John!” Sherlock moved quietly across the gravel to block the entrance. The single controlling gesture made John’s pulse speed up.  
  
“We were doing touristy things,” John belatedly answered Sherlock’s question. “Also, since when you do you reveal secret identities of secret agents?”  
  
“Only on good days,” Sherlock smiled, but John could tell that he was still uncomfortable thinking about what had happened earlier.  
  
“Do you want to actually have sex with me? I mean, outside the hotel?” John had to ask. He couldn’t just ignore that Sherlock had brought a condom on their ‘stroll’. “You do realise that it’s just above zero degrees, right?”  
  
“Just in case,” Sherlock leaned against the wall, avoiding John’s eyes. “Because yesterday I think it would have been …”  
  
John started laughing. “Imagine their faces if they had wanted to steal the sheep and instead would have found us going at it like teenagers.”  
  
Sherlock blushed again and John wondered how much hell he would get from Sherlock if he took a picture of him now. His hand settled on the camera in his pocket when Sherlock finally looked at him again.  
  
“Can we go back?”  
  
“No.” John wondered if he’d ever stop grinning again.  
  
“This isn’t working, is it?” Sherlock sighed and stepped aside, making sure John could leave if he wanted to. John remained standing where he was.  
  
“Sherlock, I’m just teasing you.”  
  
They both stood there for a while, silent and unmoving and John wondered whether Sherlock was actually upset or whether it was part of whatever game it was he had been playing with him. Just when he decided to say something inappropriate to test him, two children came running through the entrance, shouting at the walls to test the echo.  
  
Sherlock stood and watched and eventually turned around and left. John frowned at where Sherlock had disappeared through the wall, wondering whether he had said something wrong. But even if he had; Sherlock had never really been the type to just walk away. Well, from everyone but him, at least. John sighed, remembering countless instances when he had made fun of Sherlock just to see him walk out of the room in the next moment. Was it possible that Sherlock had developed a similar habit as he had?  
“John, come along.” Sherlock poked his head through the door and then jumped back as the two children raced each other out of the room.  
  
“Sherlock, come back in here,” John spoke quietly, but he knew Sherlock had heard.  
  
He had to wait for a few seconds, but then Sherlock walked back in, hands in the pockets of his coat. “What did just happen?” John asked him, needing to know that Sherlock was alright, which he didn’t seem to be.  
  
“How do you mean?”  
  
“You said that this isn’t working,” John stated, watching Sherlock closely, “What isn’t working?” He couldn’t read Sherlock’s face, but he could see that his hands were curled into fists in his pockets. “Sherlock, are you alright?” He stepped closer and carefully placed his hands on Sherlock’s fists. “Why are you angry?”  
  
“I’m not.” Sherlock stared at a point behind John’s head.  
  
“Is it because I made fun on you for wanting to have sex?” John wanted to make him look at him, but he didn’t dare remove his hands from Sherlock’s. “If it is, I’m sorry. It doesn’t mean that I don’t want us to do it, but it’s just the fact that you’re always thinking of everything; of every little detail; but when it comes to sex, you’re just …” He didn’t want to offend him further by calling him normal; but Sherlock clearly knew what he was driving at. John held on faster, just in case Sherlock wanted to walk away again. “And it’s amazing, because I’m not used to you being so surprisingly …” Again, no word would suffice to express what he felt without at the same time sounding like a derogative to Sherlock. He grew frustrated with himself, and with Sherlock, who just stood there as if he didn’t hear a word he was saying.  
  
“Listen,” he let go of him and stepped back, watching as Sherlock’s blank expression gave way to something like pain. “I’m just not used to having a partner who is so …”  
  
“Demanding?” Sherlock offered, his voice rough around the edges. “Selfish? Stup…”  
  
“Shut up, Sherlock.” John started to understand what Sherlock’s problem was. “You have every right in the world to be all of the above, but you’re not. You’re not and it’s blowing my mind. You’re considerate. You, Sherlock, are considerate, and sweet and for Christ’s sake you blush all the bloody time and it’s _so very_ special.” He stopped to catch his breath, knowing that it was now his own turn to blush. Sherlock stared at him, apparently not quite comprehending what he was saying. “A few weeks ago I had no idea that you had it in you; and that I had it in me, too. I had _no_ idea. And then you singlehandedly changed the way I see the world; again. And then you just happen to bring me here on a romantic holiday that stands in for our honeymoon and every time I try to wrap my mind around this, I feel like I’m really close to losing it.”  
  
John turned around, digging at the gravel with his shoe. “So when I tease you, it’s not because I want to point out any weaknesses of yours, which I know you are already extremely aware of; I just try to remind myself that it’s _you_ who is doing this for me. And this doesn’t make any sense now, does it?” John turned around and was almost swept off his feet when Sherlock wrapped his arms around him and kissed him, only letting him go when John started to tug as his clothes.  
  
“I’m sorry,” Sherlock spoke quietly. “I didn’t …”  
  
“It’s okay, I don’t understand it either.” John kissed him again. “You okay?”  
  
Sherlock nodded, but somehow John knew that this conversation wasn’t over. All of this was still in its early stage. No matter how well they had known each other before and no matter how well they seemed to get along, everything had changed, and it would take a great effort to make sure that this change meant only good things.  
  
“Just tell me when I step on your toes, okay? You of all people know what a blind idiot I can be sometimes and with you I never felt like I had to hold back.” John looked up at him and finally Sherlock held his gaze.  
  
“And I don’t want you to hold back, John.”  
  
“Right, so what do we do?”  
  
“We go home and have sex,” Sherlock grinned, “but not before I have found the false angle.”  
  
“The what?”  
  
“There is a rumour about a misconstruction of the main hall which made it a lot easier for the Roundheads to destroy it in the 1640s. A secret organisation of stone masons must have kept the secret all those years since it was built.”  
  
John simply grinned at Sherlock, keeping his mouth firmly shut.  
  
“I don’t know why I know this,” Sherlock stated after a moment, looking a little irritated. “What exactly did we do last night?” And John snorted and shrugged. “You apparently read all the tourist information leaflets at the hotel. Did we check whether either of us have any surprise tattoos or piercings?”  
  
“I would have stopped you,” Sherlock sounded very certain.  
  
“Why?”  
  
“Because,” Sherlock clearly tried not to be intimidated by his own thoughts, “I would have wanted to be sober for that.”  
  
“Right,” John made a face but then remembered what Sherlock had said about his oversensitive nipples and suddenly he found that this construction mistake in the castle wall was surely something very important to find out about.  
  
They silently walked through the castle, Sherlock’s eyes moving quickly up and down the walls, his hands creating imaginary shapes in the air while his steps grew quick and slow again when he saw something which caught his eye. John got dizzy watching him. He decided to blame the fact that since the piercing remark, a lot of blood had left his head as it was needed elsewhere.  
  
“There!” Sherlock pointed at a corner. “It’s crooked.”  
  
“Is it?” John really tried to be interested, but found that he was much more interested in the view he got of Sherlock’s backside, now that the raised arm tightened the coat against his body.  
  
“It must have been. John give me the camera.”  
  
He heard him speak, but he couldn’t make much sense of the words. So he simply looked at Sherlock’s face when he walked over to him, frowning in irritation. “John?”  
  
“Hmm?”  
  
“Camera?” John knew he was supposed to move now and it really wouldn’t be so hard to lift an arm and pull the camera out of his coat pocket. But then Sherlock’s body was so much more satisfying to touch. His indecision left him standing there, unmoving.  
  
Sherlock shook his head and stepped even closer, trying to get to the camera himself. Somehow they ended up kissing, pressed into the exact same corner which Sherlock had just declared to have been responsible for the destruction of the entire building. “It is impressive and slightly worrying how your intellect just vanished,” Sherlock chuckled into John’s ear.  
  
“I told you that you make me lose my mind,” John retorted, trying to keep himself from cupping Sherlock’s erection. His hands were apparently not controlled by his brain anymore. Sherlock gasped and pressed closer.  
  
“I didn’t think you meant it quite so …” he grunted and John moaned, “… literally.”  
  
It was very obvious that they needed to stop before neither of them would know how to.  
  
“Are we done here?” John was very adamant at changing the topic, and the location.  
  
“I think we are,” Sherlock pushed John away from him and closed his coat. “And if we get arrested I will make sure that they know it was your fault.”  
  
“This time I’ll gladly take the blame,” John smirked. “But only if we get to share a cell. Imagine Greg trying to bail us out!”  
  
Sherlock chuckled. “He wouldn’t. He’d sit in his flat, open a bottle of lager and enjoy the fact that he wouldn’t have to worry about us for a night.”  
  
“No photos, though?” John held out the camera.  
  
“No, what would I need a photo for?” Sherlock smirked and walked away, leaving John chuckling and straightening his clothes.


	3. Chapter Three

Darkness slowly gave way to a dim blue light. A few minutes later the sky turned pink. John smiled. He knew he would regret not sleeping, but for the first time in a long time he felt as if he was free to do whatever he wanted without having to fear any repercussions. There was no job he had to get up for. After his little stunt, Mycroft would make sure that they both had all the financial support they needed; at least for a little while. There was no immediate threat to his or Sherlock’s life, at least none that he was aware of. No cases, no bodies to dissect, no blog posts to write to secure clients. 

Turning away from the window he watched Sherlock’s back. After getting rid of their pent-up frustration, they had dined extensively and then stayed awake for a long time, silently enjoying each other’s company. He had not expected that Sherlock could be this calm; that he could lie in bed for hours and just watch him, his brain not looking for something to figure out. It appeared that coming twice within twenty minutes and again after an hour did miraculous things to Sherlock’s usually frantic brain activities. 

Sherlock had eventually moved in closer to kiss John good night and then fallen asleep almost instantly. John had remained where he was, his face a few inches away from Sherlock’s, watching him sleep. 

He was glad that their earlier discussion had not turned into something bigger; something which would leave them both insecure and wondering. And he was incredibly thankful that last night’s events seemed to have blown over somehow, as if the drunken night in had sufficiently chased the shock and fear away. 

For the first time in weeks, John felt normal. He felt that he was ready to return to London, unafraid to get into a taxi, unafraid that Sherlock might be dragged into a dark place where he couldn’t help him. If he was honest with himself, he missed the rush of adrenaline after one of Sherlock’s impossibly stupid stunts. They both had gotten their rush elsewhere, and John was certainly not complaining, but he knew that Sherlock missed London just as much, and quite possibly even more than he did. 

He wasn’t sure whether two more days in Winchester would drive Sherlock up the wall, but he guessed that it might be worth trying to find out. As much as he missed London, he was very much aware that what they had now wouldn't last. Sherlock would have new cases; he would drag him along and he would disappear inside his head, leaving John frustrated and lonely. He knew that it was selfish, but he wanted to have just a few more hours with Sherlock as compliant, as human, and as loving as he was now. Even here it wouldn’t last, but for now Sherlock was gentle and careful and concerned and John hoped that a few days would suffice for Sherlock to understand that being weak was alright; that he could be himself, or any version of himself he wanted to be, when he was alone with him. 

Sherlock had frowned in his sleep, as if he had read John’s mind, commenting unconsciously on John’s thoughts. He reached out and gently touched his face, his thumb smoothening out the lines on his forehead. 

Then he had gotten up and sat down by the window, watching the night sky, thinking about whatever came to his mind, occasionally turning his head to look at the bed, where all he could see of Sherlock now was his dark hair, standing out drastically against the white linen of the sheets and pillows. The full moon shone so brightly that it cast shadows. For a moment he wished that he could see Sherlock lying there naked and asleep, with no sheet draped over him, covering his skin. But then he was glad of the cover, because he was sure he would have woken Sherlock up again, unable to resist the urge to find out what his skin looked like up close in the silver light. 

He didn’t know how long he had sat there, but it was strangely comforting, one wrist pressing lightly against the cold glass of the window while his other hand was lying warm against his thigh. He felt as if he was protecting Sherlock, not only from villains and criminals, but from the rest of the world, which didn’t conform to his own. 

Soon Sherlock would wake up and wonder what John was doing up. He would ask him to go to sleep, and then not let him. John smiled as he thought about how impossible Sherlock could be when he knew he was safe; safe with him. 

Sherlock moved, murmuring something under his breath and then turned on his back, moving around a bit, one hand settling where John should be. For a few moments nothing happened. John tried to ignore how hard his heart was beating and Sherlock seemed to still be asleep. But then he stirred again, his hand balling into a fist and a small painful sound escaped him as he sat up, blinking tiredly at the spot where John was supposed to lie. Then he closed his eyes again and inhaled deeply, stretching his fingers out again before turning to look at him. 

“What are you doing?” he asked, his voice rough with sleep. 

“Thinking,” John answered with a small smile. 

“Can’t you think here?”

John looked out onto the field which was visible behind the neighbouring house just as the sun rose, making him close his eyes for a second. 

“I could, but I wanted to watch this.”

Sherlock pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes, rubbing. John smiled and watched a slither of sunlight slowly growing larger as it started to brighten the room. He was only marginally aware that Sherlock had stopped rubbing his eyes and was now watching him in fascination.

Only when Sherlock didn’t say anything for a while John looked at him again, smiling more widely. “What?”

Sherlock checked his expression, but he kept looking. “Nothing.”

“Come here?” John didn’t necessarily want Sherlock to get up for him, but then he did very much want to share this moment with him.

“Why don’t you come to bed?”

“I want you to see this, too.”

Sherlock rolled out of the bed, yawning and stretching, before coming to stand next to John, wrapping his arms around him, placing his chin on his head. John, in turn, slid one hand around him and pulled him a little closer, smiling at the intimacy of the moment. Sherlock was warm and smelled like sleep. He inhaled deeply.

For a moment, neither of them spoke. The sun had now risen completely and stood above the fields, blinding them both. Sherlock let out a shuddering sigh which told John that despite Sherlock’s relaxed conduct, he hadn’t yet come to terms with their present situation. 

“You okay?” he asked, moving his head so he could look at Sherlock. In the morning light, Sherlock’s eyes were almost golden, his eye-lashes casting shadows against his cheek-bones as he looked down on John, nodding slowly. Then, after a moment, his nods became more certain. “Yes. I’m fine. How are you this morning?” 

John pulled Sherlock’s head down to place a gentle kiss on his lips. Feeling Sherlock’s stubble against his own made him smile. “I’m very well, thank you.” 

Sherlock’s nose nudged his and then straightened again, resuming his position. “You are going to be very tired in a few minutes.”

“Is that a promise?” John grinned, feeling Sherlock’s arms tighten for a second.

“Let’s go back to see the sheep today.” He sounded hopeful and John had to laugh. 

“Are you going to yell at them again?”

“Maybe?”

“Then no. They are probably already traumatised.”

“Please?” Sherlock moved his head to kiss John’s temple while his left hand fell from John’s shoulder, coming to rest on his outstretched leg. The other leg was drawn close to his body on which he had rested his elbow earlier. “It could be dangerous?”

Just as John wanted to explain to Sherlock that there was nothing dangerous about sheep, Sherlock moved his hand from John’s leg and placed it gently over his crotch, one finger moving slowly but deliberately back and forth, making John grin. Sherlock was being playful and that happened only very rarely, so he would definitely not go and drag him out of that mood. 

“Dangerous, how?” he breathed, watching himself grow hard under Sherlock’s hand. 

“I could accidentally lose my coat and you …” he nudged John’s temple with his nose, “… you would have to keep me warm.”

“Would I?” John licked his lips and placed one hand on top of Sherlock’s, increasing the pressure.

“Oh, you would.” His fingers slowly moved to wrap around John’s erection, the thin fabric of his shorts the only thing keeping him from encircling his cock completely. John wanted to push against him, but it would have been difficult in his position, so he just stayed as he was, hoping that Sherlock’s playful mood would eventually lead to something more than teasing.

“The sheep could attack me.” Sherlock offered, clearly wanting to keep the silly discussion going. “They might want to trample me?”

John snorted, but then moaned when Sherlock’s hand started to move. He was now completely hard and it became increasingly difficult to concentrate on what they had been talking about. “Remind me to never ever go to the zoo with you,” John pressed his face against Sherlock’s chest as he moved to slip his hand under his shorts, finally touching him properly. 

“You would come if I asked you to.” Sherlock sounded completely convinced that he would, which made the pun even funnier to John. He grinned, slowly shaking his head and jerking when Sherlock’s thumb started to move in slow circles over his head. “I would, if you begged.”

Sherlock’s movement faltered as he tried to connect John’s statement with what he had just said. John chuckled and flicked his tongue over a nipple close to his face. 

He could tell the exact moment when Sherlock understood, because his hand tightened for a second, making John grunt, and then he started moving faster. 

“I don’t beg,” Sherlock murmured into John’s hair.

“No?” John was positive he would just fall off the window sill if Sherlock kept doing what he did with his hand. 

“Never.”

“There are so many ways to make you …” John did not finish that sentence, because in a blur of movement, Sherlock extracted his hand from his underwear, grabbed his legs, spun him around and simply picked him up. The air left his lungs when he fell backwards on the bed. And then Sherlock was on top of him, kissing him hard, swallowing the sounds of protest John kept trying to make. 

For quite a while after, John was the one doing the begging. 

 

Sherlock had been right. John ended up being very tired; too tired even to properly protest when Sherlock dug out the camera and took a couple of pictures of him, pretending that he was a murder suspect.

“Not funny,” John complained and pulled the sheet up to his nose. “If you don’t stop I will start taking pictures of your arse and stick them to the living room mirror. I’m sure everyone would appreciate that. Except for maybe Mycroft.”

That stopped Sherlock, at least for as long as John was conscious. 

 

He felt well rested when he woke up again. Sherlock sat on the bed next to him, dressed in his black trousers and a shirt, freshly shaved, reading through files. John stretched and yawned, feeling ready to conquer the world; or at least Sherlock.

“Don’t even think about it.” Sherlock said just as John opened his mouth to speak. 

“You can’t possibly know what I was going to ask,” John complained, poking Sherlock’s side. For once, Sherlock had enough self control to not react. 

John smiled at the ceiling, remembering their earlier conversation. “Tickling you. Not letting you come. Not letting you touch me.”

“It took you three hours to come up with those?” Sherlock sounded almost disgusted and John laughed, moving until he could press his face against Sherlock’s side. For all of Sherlock’s apparent disinterest, he couldn’t keep his hand from moving to John’s hair, stroking gently. “I could most definitely make you beg if I wanted to,” John said gravely, feeling rather than hearing Sherlock chuckle. 

“Oh,” Sherlock suddenly exclaimed, dropping the file on the bed next to John. “It was the therapist!”

John moved away again to give him room, hating that he felt immediately rejected.

“John, you read the file. You do remember the alibi of the therapist.” He wasn’t asking questions, he was talking at John. “He couldn’t have been there if his daughter was meeting the lawyer at his practice. They were renovating the flat and the daughter needed somewhere nice and professional to talk to the solicitor to convince him that he would represent her. The only place she could have gone to in order to have that conversation was the practice. But to pretend it was hers they exchanged the signs at the door. Therefore the victim could not have had her first session with him because his name was not at the door. He lied about her. He lied about everything. Good god, why didn’t Lestrade ask him the important questions.” Sherlock moved off the bed and started digging in his bag, producing his phone.

“Sherlock?” John wanted to at least try to throw in a word.

“Yes, John?” He switched his phone on and pressed number two on his speed dial. 

John sighed and turned away, feeling silly for being mad at Sherlock.

He heard the faint beep as Sherlock hung up the phone before Lestrade could pick up. “You said emergencies were fine.” He sounded a tad insecure and John felt immediately guilty. 

“No, Sherlock. I said we leave the phones at home. You said emergencies. This case has been closed for years. It doesn’t qualify as an emergency.”

“I could talk fast?”

John didn’t answer. 

“Text?”

“That’s not the point.”

“But it’s work.”

“I know.” John turned on his back and looked at Sherlock. “I’m sorry. Go ahead.”

“No.”

“Go, do it. You solved it. Be proud. Tell him.”

Sherlock frowned at John and he started feeling sad about his own behaviour. “Ignore me, I’m just jealous,” he admitted, scrunching up his face in frustration. 

“What?”

“Just do it.”

“Fine.” Sherlock texted Lestrade, and John had the feeling that he took much longer than he would under different circumstances. 

The mood had shifted from relaxed to tense within the short span of a few minutes and John wanted to kick himself for spoiling it. But then again, he had a right to be upset. He did. 

“I’ll be back,” Sherlock said after a while and left the room without taking his coat or scarf. 

While John was relieved that he obviously intended to stay inside the building, he felt incredibly guilty for making Sherlock leave, hoping he didn’t feel as unreasonably frustrated as John did when he walked away from Sherlock.

John lay on the bed, staring at the ceiling in frustration, wishing that he was better at this.


	4. Chapter Four - The End

He didn’t want to be upset about this, and he certainly didn’t want Sherlock to be upset about this either. He wanted for him to understand that … John closed his eyes and tried to remember what Mycroft had told him when he had been so upset about Sherlock using him as bait when he had gone to Canada to get a confession out of Carl.

_You do understand that his work will always come first? You have become part of his work, so figuratively speaking, you also come first, but considering recent events, I thought you should be made aware of that again._

John could still hear Mycroft’s voice, the tone he had used, urging John to understand his little brother a bit better. He shouldn’t have let himself forget the meaning behind those words and the trust Mycroft put in him.

He stood up and pulled on his jeans. After a moment of looking around he found his shirt and socks. Taking a deep breath he opened the door, ready to go and look for Sherlock. He didn’t have to look far, though. Sherlock was sitting on top of the stairs, his hands pressed together under his chin in a familiar pose, elbows propped up on his knees.

John quietly sat down next to him; not touching, but close enough to feel Sherlock’s warmth. “I’m sorry.” He glanced at Sherlock, feeling rejected again when he couldn’t perceive a reaction. “It’s just that I sometimes forget … no. I want you ….” He faltered, unable to say what he needed to say without offending Sherlock more than he already had. Or maybe he hadn’t? Sherlock would have said something then and not just walked out.

And he couldn’t say that he wished Sherlock was different. He couldn’t say he wanted for him to behave like normal people did. He couldn’t tell him that he wanted to be the only important thing in Sherlock’s life, because none of it was true, at least not entirely.

“I understand that you are upset. I’ll try to be better with this. I don’t want you to think that I want to change you.” He hoped that Sherlock was listening, but when he looked up again, his stomach in knots, Sherlock dropped his hands and looked back at him.

“I’m sorry, John. I promised you I wouldn’t bring the phones.”

Relief flooded John and he closed the gap between their bodies, placing his hand on Sherlock’s cheek and turning his head so he could kiss him. Sherlock leaned into his touch.

“Thank you,” John hoped that Sherlock would be able to tell how much his apology meant to him. “Come back inside? Let me take a shower and then we go and find your sheep?” John smiled, wanting to forget the last few minutes as quickly as possible.

Sherlock nodded, looking relieved. Then he stood up and even before he had reached the door to their room he had gotten rid of his shirt and was starting on his trousers.

“Wait for me!” John called and quickly ran after him.

It was another sunny afternoon, and John decided that maybe, if they were alone, and the sun was still shining, Sherlock might be allowed to take off a few layers of his clothes. He wore the tight jeans again, but John had ignored the urge to stay inside after all and bravely left the room first.

The stable was locked when they arrived, but Sherlock only saw that as a challenge and within seconds he had picked the lock and slipped inside, leaving John to close the door behind them, painfully aware that it was now obvious that somebody had unlocked it.

“Sherlock, don’t you think they might be more careful now? I’m pretty sure they’ll have installed some sort of alarm system or cameras.”

“They might have become more careful, yes. But there are neither cameras nor any other kind of alarm system. And if they can’t properly lock their property, I’ll gladly show them how to do it.”

“We are trespassing.”

“You weren’t complaining two days ago,” Sherlock pointed out. “It was you who found this place and who trespassed first, remember?”

“But that was because you couldn’t walk three feet without falling on your face,” John countered.

Sherlock did not answer him, but instead crossed the room to open the door to the pen. “They’re still here,” he declared happily, sounding as if he was convinced that the sheep had been given a choice and had chosen to remain in place just for Sherlock.

“Right, do you want me to take notes or can I go and hide just in case they do decide to check for thieves?” John stepped in behind him and closed the door.

Sherlock smiled and knelt down in front of a sheep and John wondered whether it was the same one which Sherlock had examined two days ago. It probably was. “Still not scared, even after all of what happened.”

Then he jumped up, waving his arms wildly. The sheep steeped apart and cowered against the wooden planks of the pen while John watched on and laughed.

Seconds after Sherlock had stopped waving his arms, the animals began moving towards again him and eventually ignored him. “They are like you, John,” Sherlock said gravely. “I can’t seem to scare them away, and even if I do, they just forget and come back.”

“This is the most romantic and at the same time the most offensive thing you have ever said about me,” John shook his head grinning. “And for the protocol, I don’t forget; but I still come back.”

“Very masochistic of you,” Sherlock carefully answered, standing a bit awkwardly among the sheep.

“Dimmock said the same,” John pushed his hands into his pockets and grinned. “Deduce what my answer was.”

Sherlock’s slightly worried look gave way to a small smile. “You said you get off with me, so you also have something to look forward to?”

“We didn’t have sex yet when we had that conversation,” he pointed out.

“Bugger,” Sherlock answered, making John giggle.

“But you’re not that far away from the truth,” he smiled and stepped closer. “I told him that I do get to experience you when you are in a good mood, too.” He pulled him into a hug. “And currently, that kind of amounts to the same thing as sex.”

“You are very patient, though,” Sherlock said quietly. “And I’m glad you always come back.”

John smiled. “I’m going to miss this when we’re back home.”

Sherlock nodded. “It’s going to be different.”

“Yes, probably.”

“You’ll still be patient.”

“Probably.”

“I’ll still be in a good mood, occasionally.”

John laughed and kissed him. “And even if you aren’t, I’m sure I’ll get you there.”

“Hmm,” Sherlock said against his lips.

“Do you want to go up on that hill?” John asked when he felt as if Sherlock was reassured that John would indeed be patient. “I mean, you do have boots now and while we’re already here …”

“You’re scared someone will come and find us here,” Sherlock observed with a smirk.

“I think those sheep do not hold the holy grail of wisdom; that’s what I think,” John sniffed and stepped back. “I also think we should enjoy the sun while it shines.”

“Sunshine,” Sherlock managed to sound disdainful. “Sunshine is boring.”

“That might be true, but the sun might warm you up and cause you to take off your coat, and that would be so very much the opposite of boring.” John’s argument was foolproof.

“Right,” Sherlock’s lips twitched but he still managed to look nonchalant. “I presume summer will be very exciting for you then.”

“I would hope so.”

“Good,” Sherlock finally grinned and then took a sweeping look at the sheep. “I do wish they were smarter,” he said, sounding regretful. “One day I might train one.”

“Not at Baker Street,” John gave him a look that left no room for protest.

“Or not,” he shook his head at the next best sheep. “Sorry.”

John giggled. “Sherlock, let’s get out of here?”

When they stepped outside, his thoughts were in back London. Thinking of Dimmock had brought back memories which he was not very keen on digging up again. For a while he wondered whether a few more days here would make it better, but apart from the fact that the hotel room cost a fortune, he didn’t think that ignoring his demons would chase them away. He wasn’t very good at confronting them, but he knew that he had to this time.

Sherlock’s hand settled on the small of his back and he looked up, catching him looking worried before he blanked his face. “Sorry,” he murmured. “I’m a bit rubbish at being happy.”

“Did you bring the camera today?” Sherlock asked, ignoring his remark.

“You know that I did,” John smiled.

“Well, give it to me.” Sherlock held out the hand that was not busy slowly moving down John’s back.

He grinned and shook his head, remembering yesterday’s outcome of Sherlock’s request. “Get it yourself.”

Sherlock sighed dramatically but then stepped behind John, placing both hands on his chest, moving down. Eventually he fished the camera out of John’s coat pocked with his left hand, but let his right hand wander further down until he could worm his way under his coat, jumper and shirt. Flattening his hand against his stomach, he pulled him back against own body. John gasped. He couldn’t remember ever going from somewhat moody to incredibly aroused within the span of a few seconds. Sherlock nuzzled his ear while his thumb stroked the soft skin on John’s lower stomach. When it pushed under his waistband, John moaned, not quite knowing which way he should go; press harder against Sherlock’s body or hope that the hand on his stomach would move down further. He sucked in his stomach, holding his breath, praying that Sherlock would get the hint. He did, and his fingers slid down and into his underwear, curling around his growing erection. “Oh god, Sherlock.”

“Hmm, I think you’re not so rubbish at being happy after all,” he grinned and gently bit his earlobe. John laughed breathlessly and leaned into him, closing his eyes. He heard the quiet click of the camera, and opening his eyes again he heard a second click. Then his eyes focused on the group of people coming towards them down from the hill. Without a word, Sherlock pulled out his hand and straightened John’s coat from behind, moving away a few feet. They kept that distance as they walked uphill, passing the group with a few nods and words of greeting. Only after they were out of ear shot did they start to giggle.

“I think the day of our arrest is not very far off,” John grinned. “Greg is going to hate us.”

“I do not plan on doing that when we’re in the presence of any member of the yard.”

“Right, and how much time did you spend planning that little attack on me?”

Sherlock huffed, and John knew he had made a point. “Sherlock Holmes. The world’s only consulting detective and compulsive groper.” John giggled at Sherlock’s indignant expression. “That was … something else, though” he admitted, a giddy feeling settling in his stomach just at the thought of what Sherlock had just done. “I wouldn’t mind if you did something like that more often.”

At Sherlock’s wicked smile he hastily added, “When we’re alone, of course.”

“Of course,” Sherlock nodded, “because John Watson resents danger.”

John could feel goose bumps rise on his arms and neck and he decided to not discuss this any further; not when they wanted to spend a little more than just an hour outside before they felt the urgent need to return to the hotel.

Silently they walked until they reached the summit, overlooking Winchester and the surrounding rolling hills.

Sherlock stood next to him, straight and steady, his eyes fixed on the horizon, squinting against the sunlight. John watched him for a moment, feeling reminded of the first time he met him. It seemed a lifetime ago. Everything he had felt about him back then he still felt. Confusion, intimidation, and admiration; all were still present when he looked at him; and yet so many more emotions had joined those initial ones. Emotions, and a profound sense of understanding. He had gotten to know Sherlock much better than he had ever thought possible; and, thinking back, Sherlock hadn’t made it very difficult for him. He wondered why Sherlock had chosen to trust him of all people, and right from the beginning.

“You didn’t tell me to piss off,” Sherlock answered that question, causing a familiar flicker of annoyance at Sherlock’s apparent mind reading trick to pass through John, but it disappeared again as quickly as it had come. Then he started to smile. He smiled so hard that his cheeks hurt and after a moment he realised that his vision was blurred by unspilt tears.

Sherlock, who had just followed his entire train of thought, frowned at John’s reaction. But how could John explain to him that it meant that they were finally back to normal, now that Sherlock could read him again, including his emotions, without being confused or uncertain.

Sherlock, without being aware of it, had solved the case of John Watson, and it felt so liberating that he wanted to scream. Instead he blinked the tears away, looked at Sherlock and nodded. “Thank god I didn’t,” he said, burying his hands in his pockets, and looked back down on Winchester, finally feeling at peace with the world.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this is the final chapter of the last part of Book I. Book II will follow eventually, though not before the new year.  
> Thank you so much for reading, and an extra special thank you to those who took the time to comment <3


End file.
